


What If...?

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, M/M, Tags Are Hard, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Why Are People Reading This?, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25821541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of random Sherlock one-shots that I decided to write because yes.None of these are connected unless otherwise indicated.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**What if Sherlock gets sick?**

John’s head snapped up when he heard a crash from the kitchen. “Sherlock? You okay?”

“Fine,” came Sherlock’s response. “It’s nothing.”

And then there was a _sneeze._

John put his book down and headed for the kitchen. “Did you just sneeze?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. I don’t get sick.”

He proceeded to sneeze. Again.

John passed him a tissue, trying to suppress a grin. “Sure?”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, gratefully taking the tissue.

“Okay, but that was the cutest–”

“SHUT. UP.”

“Alright.” John smirked at him, but it quickly faded when he took in Sherlock’s appearance. The detective looked like he had a fever, and the constant lack of sleep didn’t help. “I’m heading out. Be right back.”

Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the microscope, but he made a little hum of acknowledgement.

\--------------------

“What’s all this?” Sherlock asked, going through the bags that John had just brought home. He held up a bottle and made a face. “Medicine?”

“It’ll help,” John told him. “I’ll force-feed you if I have to. Now, go to bed. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock grumbled something, but he went nonetheless. John sighed. Lestrade was right; it was like having a kid. A whiny, trigger-happy kid who could tell you your whole life story with one glance.

When John entered the room, Sherlock was curled up and wrapped in his blanket. The man was usually tall and intimidating, but he looked so adorable now.

He set a glass of water and a small medicine cup on the nightstand. “Three times a day, twenty millilitres. No more, no less, you hear me?” Sherlock gave a small nod, and John couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

John was about to close the door when he heard Sherlock.

“Johnnnnnnnn,” he whined.

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

John’s look was one of resignation as he crawled into bed next to Sherlock, who hugged him like a teddy bear.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. “I love you.”

The last part might be the fever talking, or John’s imagination, or a mix of both. Normally, he’d complain and say that “people might talk”, but this time, he didn’t mind.

“I love you too.” John planted a quick kiss on the genius’s forehead, and the latter smiled.

\--------------------

They must have fallen asleep together because a few hours later, they were woken by the doorbell.

Sherlock made an effort to get up, but John was quicker. He shoved him back onto the bed. “You stay. I’ll go see who it is.”

“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “He’s got a case.”

“How do you–” John began, but he cut himself off. “Never mind. Still, you stay.”

John tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes as he opened the door. As always, Sherlock was right.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. His eyes widened, noticing John’s messy hair and clothes. “Oh my God, were you two–”

John quickly shook his head. “No! But Sherlock is a bit… otherwise occupied at the moment.”

Lestrade looked in the direction of Sherlock’s room. “Is he–”

“No!” John shouted before immediately lowering his voice. “If you must know, he’s sick.”

“Sherlock Holmes, sick?” Lestrade let out a small laugh. “I never thought this day would come.”

“I’ll take the case,” said Sherlock, leaning against the kitchen door for support.

“Like hell you will,” John countered.

“I’m gonna have to agree with John on this one,” Lestrade said. “You look like hell.”

Sherlock sniffled. “I may be incapacitated physically, but I assure you my mind is perfectly functional.” He made little grabby motions towards the file in Lestrade’s hands.

John sighed (he seemed to do that a lot in the last 24 hours) and took the file. “Fine. I’ll go. He–” he pointed at Sherlock– “is not leaving this flat.”

“Uh, yeah,” Lestrade said, getting up. He gave Sherlock one last glance before leaving. “I’ll wait downstairs!”

“Don’t tell Donovan and Anderson!” Sherlock called after him. “Okay, lemme see.”

John held the file just out of reach. “We can FaceTime for the whole thing, but you’re staying at home. Understood?”

Sherlock nodded. “Now, give me the bloody file.”

\--------------------

Somehow, word still got around about Sherlock being sick. After he recovered, everyone snickered when he entered Scotland Yard.

“I hate Lestrade,” he grumbled to John, turning his collar up.

“No you don’t. Without him, you’d go insane. Probably die of an overdose.”

“Without you, I’d go insane.”

John paused and turned to look at Sherlock. “You really mean that?”

“Of course. Why else would I tell you that I love you?”

John blinked a few times. “So that’s not just the fever?”

Sherlock glanced around the police station. “I’ll give them something to talk about,” he muttered, leaning forward

And he kissed John, right then and there.

“How’s that for an answer?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW // Mentions of suicide
> 
> Takes place after The Reichenbach Fall.

**What if John just... can't handle it anymore?**

John grabbed his coat. “Mrs Hudson, I’m heading out!”

“At this hour?” the landlady asked. “Be careful!”

John allowed himself a faint smile. She claimed that she wasn’t his mother, but she sure acted like it.

He made his way down to Bart’s, collar turned up and hands buried deep in his pocket.

He had thought long and hard about it, and John believed that it was the only option. If he went through with it, there would be no turning back.

But up there, on the roof, where he could see a good portion of the city, he wasn’t so sure.

 _Come on, John _,__ he told himself. ___You can do it.___

He took a deep breath and stepped onto the ledge.

_____Be a soldier, one last time._ _ _ _ _

Naturally, he looked down. It was high, but if Sherlock could do it, then he could too.

________Ding!__ _ _ _ _ _ _

He stepped down and looked around for the source of the sound. It took him a few minutes as he fumbled around in the dark, but eventually, his hand brushed against something.

“Is that Sherlock’s phone?” he muttered to himself, picking up the phone and typing in the password. “Can’t believe it’s still here. He...”

John trailed off as he read the text message. It was from an unknown number, but he knew exactly who sent the message.

[Don’t.]  
[SH]

John crumpled to the ground, putting a hand to his mouth. He fought back tears as another text came through.

[I’m sorry it took so long.]  
[SH]

“I’m here now,” said a familiar voice. A gentle hand landed on his back.

John turned and buried his face into Sherlock’s coat and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the ending and how short it is, but I can't figure out how to fix it, so whatever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Major character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly cried while writing this, but I'm proud of it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**What if that final problem went a bit differently?**

“Hey, sis, don’t mean to complain but this one’s empty,” Sherlock said, walking into the room. “What happened? Did you run out of ideas?”

The screens around the room turned on, and once again, Eurus was staring at them. “It’s not empty, Sherlock. You’ve still got the gun, haven’t you?”

Sherlock glanced down at the gun in his hand, clutching it tightly. Mycroft and John made eye contact, knowing exactly what will happen.

“I told you you’d need it, because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice. It’s make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most– John or Mycroft?”

John broke the eye contact, looking away. Mycroft frowned at him.

Sherlock had made many hard decisions so far, but this was not one that he is willing to make. Not a game that he was willing to play.

“It’s an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose, family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson?”

Finally, Sherlock turned around to look at the two of them. John refused to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the walls around them.

“Eurus, enough!” Mycroft shouted. Somehow, he successfully kept emotion from slipping into his voice.

“Not yet, I think.” Eurus smiled. It was unnerving. “But nearly. Remember, there’s a plane in the sky, and it’s not going to land.”

Mycroft let out a small sigh. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Sherlock demanded, staring at his brother.

“We’re not actually going to discuss this, are we?” He turned to look at John, his face an emotionless mask. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. You’re a fine man in many respects.”

“Make your goodbyes and shoot him,” he told Sherlock, his voice not unlike that of a robot.

Sherlock and Mycroft glared at each other for a few seconds.

“Shoot him!” Mycroft said, raising his voice.

John took a few steps towards Mycroft. “What?” Unlike Mycroft’s, his voice was full of emotion, on the verge of breaking. He looked at Sherlock, and for a second, he truly believed that Sherlock would shoot him.

The whole time, Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes remained trained on Mycroft, not believing what his brother was saying.

Well, he knew exactly why he said it. But he refused to believe it. He _couldn’t_ believe it.

“Shoot Doctor Watson,” Mycroft told him. “There’s no question who has to continue from here. It’s us; you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don’t prolong his agony; shoot him.”

“Do I get a say in this?” John asked, inching just a bit closer.

“Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours.”

John glared at Mycroft and clenched his jaw. Eventually, he slumps, defeated. “Shit. He’s right.”

Sherlock’s face was unreadable as he turned to John, the two looking right at each other.

“Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony,” Mycroft said, a hint of contempt in his voice. “Get it over with… and we can get to work.”

John straightened up, mentally preparing himself.

Sherlock couldn’t bear to meet John’s eyes. He knew that the second he does, he’ll melt.

Mycroft scoffed at Sherlock and chuckled sarcastically. “God! I should have expected this.” The smile disappeared, replaced by a cruel sneer. “Pathetic. You always were the slow one... the idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second.

“Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him.”

“Stop it.”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the ground. His whole life, he’d been quite the expert at repressing his emotions, shoving them deep down where they’d never be able to touch him again. But then, the dam began to break, and all those emotions came flooding back.

“Look at him. What is he?” Mycroft asked.

John, whose gaze had never left Sherlock, sighed. He knew what had to happen. On the battlefield, John had watched friends go. Now, it was his turn.

If he could, John would have lunged forward and shot himself. It would’ve made it easier for Sherlock. He was always willing to do anything for the detective.

But he had no way of knowing what Eurus would have done. She might’ve killed Mycroft anyway. Or even worse, killed Sherlock too.

“Nothing more than a distraction,” Mycroft continued, each word hitting Sherlock like a dagger. “A little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You’ll find another.”

On the screens, Eurus seemed intrigued, and just a little bit pleased. She cocked her head and leaned forward, watching the three of them like it was nothing but a show on the telly.

“Please, for God’s sake, just... stop it,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing.” Sherlock slowly turned toward his older brother, choosing to stare at his shoes instead of meeting his gaze.

Mycroft blinked a few times, seemingly disappointed.

“Ignore everything he just said,” Sherlock told John, still not lifting his head. “He’s being kind. He’s trying to make it easy for me to kill him.”

Mycroft smiled ruefully at his younger brother. He figured that Sherlock would catch on, but he had hoped that he would do what needed to be done.

The world needed Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. The pair were one-of-a-kind.

Mycroft, however, was expendable. He could easily be replaced by another nameless face in a suit.

For the first time in seemingly forever, Sherlock lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Mycroft.

”You said you liked my Lady Bracknell,” the older brother said with a soft smile.

“Sherlock. Don’t.” John’s voice was just barely above a whisper.

Mycroft turned to look at the doctor, who met his eyes. “It’s not your decision, Doctor Watson.”

“Not in the face, though, please,” he told Sherlock. “I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, pushing back the tears that had slowly crept forward. “Where would you suggest?”

“Well... I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me.” He glanced down, adjusting his tie. “I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but… why don’t we try for that?”

Somehow, Sherlock found the strength to smile a bit. It didn’t come out the way that he intended, though; just a small twitch of his mouth.

John stepped forward, holding out a hand to tell Sherlock to stay back. “I won’t allow this.”

“This is my fault,” Mycroft admitted. “Her Christmas treat: five minutes’ conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago.”

“What did they discuss?” Sherlock asked, but it came out more like a command.

“Five minutes’ conversation... unsupervised.”

Sherlock’s hold on the pistol slipped just a bit.

John stumbled back a few steps. A few emotions flashed across his face: anger, betrayal, shock. Sherlock let out a breath and regained his composure.

“Goodbye, brother mine.” A faint smile was on Mycroft’s face as he looked back at his brother. “No flowers… by request.”

“Jim Moriarty thought you’d make this choice,” Eurus said, unblinking. A bit of emotion slips into her voice. “He was so excited.”

With a soft clang, the lights in the room turned red. Moriarty replaced Eurus on the screen.

“And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes.”

Sherlock’s gaze never left Mycroft. His hands shook a bit as he gripped the pistol painfully.

“This is where I get off.” Moriarty smiled, but it never reached his cold, lifeless eyes. The lights turned white again and Eurus reappeared.

“Five minutes,” Sherlock said, his voice trembling. “It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly as Sherlock glanced at John. Their eyes met.

The moment seemed to stretch on for ages. Sherlock’s face gave off a single message: _I’m sorry._

With a sigh, Sherlock lowered the gun.

“What are you doing?” Eurus asked, frowning.

Mycroft’s gaze flickered between the two of them, his expression pained. He held his hands behind his back.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Bottom of the sock drawer. Understand?”

Mycroft nodded.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice barely audible.

John shifted on his feet, looking up at Sherlock.

“Make sure they’re looked after. All of them. Please?” His voice cracked on the last word, and despite his best efforts, a tear slipped out.

“I will.”

Suddenly, realization dawned on Eurus’s face. “No, no, Sherlock. You can’t. You can’t!”

And in one swift motion, Sherlock Holmes fired a bullet into his brain

\--------------------

On the helicopter, John and Mycroft sat next to each other.

Sherlock was sent ahead. John knew that they were racing against time. He did as much as he could, but he had just about nothing to work with.

He tried his best to be positive, he really did. There was always a chance that Sherlock could survive.

In a rare burst of emotion, Mycroft reached over and pulled John into a hug.

“He’s Sherlock. He does the impossible,” Mycroft said quietly.

John nodded and looked down at his hands. They were no longer covered in Sherlock’s blood, but John would never get the sight out of his head.

\--------------------

At 9:07 A.M., Sherlock Holmes was pronounced dead at St. Thomas’ Hospital.

\--------------------

**BONUS:**

Mycroft took all of the socks out of the drawer and pulled out the false bottom. He knew that Sherlock usually kept a secret stash underneath.

However, this time, there were a few envelopes. Mycroft could tell they were carefully sealed with steady hands. Each one was light– most likely a letter inside. They were meant for John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and…

Oh.

There was one for him.

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft called. “I think you may want to take a look at this.”

John poked his head through the doorway, and Mycroft held up the envelopes.

“See to it that each recipient receives their letter, will you?” he asked, his voice impossibly soft.

The doctor nodded, taking the envelopes. Once he was out of earshot, Mycroft gently cut open the envelope from the top, careful not to damage anything lying within.

He was right; it was a letter. The handwriting was steady and unmistakably his.

****

****_Mycroft,_ ** **

****_If you’re reading this, I’m most likely dead._ ** **

****_Well, I suppose this day was always coming. I would be harmed during a case, or overdose on drugs. I suspect you have a file on all the drugs I’ve ever taken. You were always better at that._ ** **

****_At the time that I’m writing this, Mary had just passed away a week ago. John wants nothing to do with me. This is just in case I do slip up and take too much at once._ ** **

****_Don’t grieve for me too much, will you? After all, you do have a government to run. And the CIA. And whatever new ridiculous title you’ve picked up along the way. I know you do care for me somewhere under that suit, and there’s a heart where you claim there is just an empty cavity._ ** **

****_Do you mind keeping an eye on John for me? I know the suicide was particularly hard on him. Normal people are so emotional. They grow fond so easily._ ** **

****_Since I refuse to say it to your face, I might as well say it now:_ ** **

****_I love you, Mycroft._ ** **

****_Yes, caring is not an advantage. But it’s not an option either._ ** **

****_SH_ ** **

****_P.S.: I will admit that you are the smarter brother. Just this once._ ** **


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a random thing that I texted my friend, but it quickly evolved into its own fanfic. It feels incomplete, but I love it the way it is.  
> Maybe I'll come back to it someday and add more, but here's what I have so far. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, a quick head's up: I'm trying out the rich text format, so if this is formatted weird, then that's why.

**[CASE #1]**

The first time that Sherlock and John had left London for a case, John had explicitly stated two beds.

They got one bed.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway, as Sherlock had stayed up the whole night, staring intensely at the wall. John didn’t know what went on in that brilliant mind of his, but he knew the man came with odd eccentricities.

Come to think of it, does Sherlock ever sleep? He played the violin well into the night back home at Baker Street, and he was almost always the first one up.

Oh, well. John could worry about that in the morning.

**[CASE #4]**

“They always think we’re a couple, don’t they?” John muttered as he flicked the light on, sighing at the single bed.

“Apparently so,” said Sherlock depositing his belongings on the desk in the corner.

John looked at the detective, who didn’t look his usual self. But then again, they  _ had _ been running around trying to catch the head of a terrorist group in the last few days. Not much time to sleep.

“I’ll take the floor,” John offered. “Used to it, anyway.”

Sherlock might be exhausted, but he wasn’t about to let John sleep on the floor. “The bed’s big enough,” he said matter-of-factly. He slid under the covers and patted the spot next to him.

“You sure?”

“Shut up and get in the bloody bed, John.”

“People would talk,” John said, even as he climbed into bed next to his best friend.

“They do little else. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

And while one light went out, another one was created. It was small and frail, but with some nurturing, it would grow into a raging fire.

**[CASE #9]**

It seemed to be a game of chance when they’d book a room at a hotel. Sometimes, there’d be two beds, but not always.

Well, John was in the army. Nothing wrong with sharing a bed with a mate when everyone was too tired to complain otherwise.

John woke up in the middle of the night with Sherlock’s arms firmly attached around his waist.

A quick glance at the clock read 4:37 A.M. The sun would be rising soon, and with it, the troubles of a new day. But for now, he would enjoy the few hours of silence.

John looked down at the detective, who seemed so small. Just a koala with a mop of curly brown hair, clinging on for dear life.

He hadn’t really expected Sherlock to be a cuddler, not when the man seemed almost inhuman at times. He wasn’t ordinary.

But there were times when he was oh so human, when he’d curl up in his chair watching crap telly or just enjoy watching old movies on rainy days, or complain that the fridge was the only place that he could put that liver, thank you very much.

Okay, maybe not the last one.

John smiled and rested his head on top of Sherlock’s as he drifted back to sleep.

**[CASE #14]**

On the surface, Sherlock was indifferent to sharing a bed with John.

But deep, deep,  _ deep _ down, where there was a small part of him called love, he cherished every moment that they spent in bed together. It was always nice crashing from the high of catching a serial killer with John by his side (because really, where else would he be?).

The more rational part of him knew that John wasn’t like that. He wasn’t gay.

He would never love Sherlock in that way, but love would fight back with surprising ferocity.

“When there’s a will, there’s a way,” it proclaimed with a determined look.

Sherlock dreaded the day that he would have to tell it otherwise. But for now, he would just be content with falling asleep next to John.

His John.

**[CASE #21]**

John didn’t know when he had realized.

Love was a fickle thing. It snuck up on you, took you from behind, and suddenly, it was the only thing occupying your thoughts.

Maybe it was during one of those sleepless nights when he could feel the heat of the desert sun and the tent shaking from explosions, when he’d lie awake from the dead of night to the chirps of birds as the sun rose, banishing the thoughts to another realm.

Or maybe it was during quiet cab rights through the streets of London, as he and Sherlock became occupied with their own thoughts. When houses and stores would just flash by, and Sherlock would grow increasingly excited as they approached a crime scene.

Whatever it was, it led John to purposely booking single-bed rooms for the last two cases. And if Sherlock had noticed, he didn’t seem to mind.

Call him a coward, but John knew the cold sting of rejection all too well, and he wasn’t anxious to repeat that, not with Sherlock.

He won’t make a move. Not now, and not ever.

**[CASE #26]**

Sherlock was new to this thing called love.

He knew the chemistry behind it, knew how destructive it could be, knew how it ruined The Woman and countless others before her.

But it didn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat when John laughed, or his mind for reminding him “John likes his tea without sugar” when trying to make amends after he messed up. It didn’t stop him from wanting to curl up in John’s lap as the latter read a book with the dim glow of the hotel lamp.

Sherlock noted the way that the light illuminated John’s face, brought out a sparkle in those beautiful eyes that were brown or blue depending on the lighting. The way that it made his heart hurt until it felt close to bursting.

_ I love, _ Love shouted from deep down.  _ I love, I love, I love, and the one that I love is John Watson. _

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered.

John looked up from his book. “What was that?” he asked, more curious than anything.

“Nothing.”

Oh, but it was  _ everything _ .

**[CASE #33]**

"I love you."

Surely, John had heard him wrong. How could Sherlock ever love him, an army doctor with ptsd and a bad leg? he could have anyone in the world. Why him?

Besides, he was married to his work. He dedicated his time to catching cold-blooded killers, not love and sentiment.

John waited until Sherlock's breathing had slowed and evened out, and he snuggled against the detective, gently running one of his hands through Sherlock’s curly hair.

The other hand rested against Sherlock’s chest, gently tapping out “I love you” in Morse code.

Because even if John had heard him wrong, even if it ends in heartbreak, he was going to shoot his shot.

"I love you too," he whispered in the darkness.

**[CASE #33]**

Out of all the cases that Sherlock has ever taken, the most confusing one was the one that he assigned to himself.

"Does John Watson love me or not?" he asks himself when they dash through the streets of London, the moonlight illuminating their path.

"Does John Watson love me or not?" he asks himself when John wordlessly hands him a cup of tea, just the way he likes it.

"Does John Watson love me or not?" he asks himself when John lies beside him in peaceful slumber, free of the day’s troubles.

And then John Watson says "I love you too," exactly two weeks and three days after he said "I love you."

"I heard you last night, you know," Sherlock began.

John froze, and Sherlock worried that he said something wrong.

Oh well. He dug this grave, and now, he was going to lie in it.

"'I love you too,' you said. Now, there's a slight margin for error-"

"You heard me?" John asked, his voice impossibly small.

"Yes, John. I heard you. And I love you. I love every part of you, and I'm never going to stop loving you."


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock, it's snowing," John said, looking out the window.

Sherlock made no effort to get up, preferring to lay down in his thinking pose on the couch. "Snow is a natural phenomenon that only excites small children and animals."

"Yes, but it never snows in London. It's always just rain and mud splashed on your clothes when the bus goes by too fast and hits a puddle."

"The percentage rate of that occurring is quite low."

John sighed. Looks like it was going to be one of those days. "We could set a fire, get some chocolate, spend a day watching the telly. It'll be like a scene from a movie."

Sherlock sat up. "Movies are unrealistic and tedious."

"Fine. I can stay in, and you can get some groceries. We're out of milk again." John shut the fridge. "What are you doing with all that milk, anyway?"

"You trust me to go outside to pick up groceries and not set fire to the nearest Tesco?" Sherlock said, deliberately ignoring the last part.

"No," John admitted. "But you're coming with me. It's not good to stay indoors all day." He grabbed Sherlock's coat off of its hook and tossed it at him. "Besides, it's snowing."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

\--------------------

Apparently, snow had to do with  _ everything _ .

The world was covered in a thin white blanket. Children ran around Regents Park, squealing and throwing snowballs at each other while their parents kept a somewhat watchful eye. Snowflakes gently drifted down from the sky, making everything appear quite picturesque.

Sherlock hated it all.

He walked ahead, keeping a brisk pace while John trailed behind him. "Snow is quite inconvenient for murders. The red of blood provides quite a stark contrast to the white of snow. There are also footprints, which tell you everything you need to know to track down the murderer."

"Fascinating," John said sarcastically, used to Sherlock's antics.

A few moments later, Sherlock felt something impact with the back of his head. Something freezing went down his back, and he flinched at the stark difference in temperature.

He whirled around to see John smirking, holding another snowball in his hand. "It's snowing."

And he lobbed the other snowball right at Sherlock's face.

It hit its mark, breaking into tiny pieces. Sherlock spluttered and blinked several times, wiping the residue from his face. "You're going down, Watson." He scooped snow off of a nearby ledge, quickly forming a snowball and throwing it with accuracy. "You might have been in the army, but I tormented Mycroft."

Maybe snow days weren't so bad after all.

\--------------------

"That was terrible," Sherlock announced as he and John sat on the couch, watching crap telly. They were huddled together under a blanket, their soaked clothes hanging before the fireplace.

John chucked. "Sure? You seemed to have a good time."

"You started it," Sherlock retorted, painfully aware of how childish he sounded.

Just then, Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, poking her head in. "Sorry, boys. Am I interrupting something?"

"No, it's fine," John told her. "Come in."

She headed for the kitchen, making them a cup of tea. "You two had a nice day out," she said, referring to the clothes by the fireplace. "I saw you two coming in, dripping water all over the place. Figured a nice cuppa would warm you right up. Hope you didn't mess him up too much, John. He gets so cranky when he gets a cold."

"Oh, I know," he assured her. Sherlock had only had a cold twice since they moved into Baker Street, but both times were absolutely miserable for everyone involved. "Well, even crankier than usual, anyway."

"I'm right here, you know," Sherlock protested, though it sounded halfhearted.

They turned their attention back to the telly until Mrs Hudson set the teacups before them. She smiled at the sight of the two of them sharing a blanket for warmth and left, gently closing the door behind her.

"Mrs Hudson is now going to add to her list of reasons why we are a couple," Sherlock stated bluntly.

"We're never going to convince her otherwise." John reached out, taking a sip from his tea. "Anyway, what did you mean when you said you tormented Mycroft? Did you actually–"

"Yes. It was one of the only things that we did that were normal."

John couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or completely serious. When it came to Sherlock, there was a very fine line between the two.

So he just nodded, imagining a young Sherlock annoying a teenage Mycroft. The thought of Mycroft being anything other than...  _ him _ was somewhat disturbing.

John was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock resting his head on his shoulder. His curly hair was slightly damp from melted snow, and it brushed up against his ear. "Sherlock?"But Sherlock was fast asleep, using John as his pillow. John didn't dare move. He knew that Sherlock needed the sleep, as he appeared to get all the sustenance that a normal human would need straight from the air. He played the violin during unholy hours of the morning and as far as John knew, only slept after crashing from the high of solving a particularly interesting case. So he just let Sherlock sleep.

\--------------------

Mrs Hudson crept up the stairs towards the boys' flat. It had been hours since she heard anything other than the telly's faint audio in the background, and the walls were far too thin for that.

She opened the door to see Sherlock and John sleeping together on the couch, a blanket curled around the two of them. Sherlock's head was resting on John's, and John's head resided on Sherlock's.

The pair looked cosy and comfortable together. They were like two kids crashing from a sugar high, able to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere.

Mrs Hudson just let them be. She knew that they weren't officially dating, but everyone around them were waiting for the inevitable to happen. Lestrade had even mentioned how there was a bet going on at Scotland Yard despite the majority disliking Sherlock in some way.

She turned off the lights and retreated down the stairs.

But not before snapping a quick picture, of course.


	6. Chapter 6

**What if instead of a blog, John created a Tumblr account?**

@johnwatson: spent all day at the morgue today because my flatmate was trying to steal some feet

@lack-toes-in-toddler-ants: did he get the feet

@johnwatson: unfortunately, yes

@johnwatson: they're in the fridge, in case you're wondering

\--------------------

@johnwatson: went home for the holidays and I'm currently on my way home

@johnwatson: really hoping my flatmate didn't destroy the entire flat but that's wishful thinking

@johnwatson: what the hell happened to the kitchen

@johnwatson: MY BEDROOM CEILING IS BRIGHT PINK

@ice-cream-and-cake: are the feet still in the fridge

@johnwatson: nope, thumbs. maybe human, maybe not, I don't particularly care

@johnwatson: I might kill him

\--------------------

@johnwatson: my flatmate noticed only today that he can label his email inbox but took apart his entire bloody laptop and put it back together two weeks ago

@iliketrains: reminds me of that post about the roommate who couldn't turn on the coffee machine but remembers 500 digits of pi

@johnwatson: I'm delighted to inform you that this is the very same person

\--------------------

@johnwatson: I'm pretty sure my flatmate hasn't ingested anything other than 327691 energy drinks a day for the past week

@biggerdickus: teach us his secrets

@gianstone: op is he alive

@johnwatson: his heart is beating faster than a hummingbird's wings but he's still a dick so I'd say yes

\--------------------

@johnwatson: This is Sherlock, John's flatmate. I'm currently using his computer, and he has stated multiple times in the past that he would like to be notified when I do so.

@johnwatson: Also, John? You really couldn't pick a better password? I got it in one try.

@johnwatson: SHERLOCK GET YOUR OWN BLOODY COMPUTER IT'S IN YOUR ROOM

@johnwatson: Yours was closer.

@shitpostcentral: oh my god they're married

\--------------------

@johnwatson: til that my flatmate knows everyone who was involved in making Super Mario Bros but he doesn't know that the earth revolves around the sun

@dont-bother-avenging-my-death: what the fuck

@gred-and-forge: is this the same flatmate

@johnwatson: yes

@gred-and-forge: someone get this man a tumblr account

\--------------------

anonymous asked: get your flatmate on tumblr, he'd fit right in

@johnwatson: I can ask but he'll probably say no

@johnwatson: he said yes if he can bring another severed head home

@i-do-not-exist: do it

@johnwatson: it's a literal severed head from the morgue. you don't understand having the fear of god instilled into you at 3 am because you're feeling peckish and a bloody head stares back at you, silently judging your life decisions

@serpentsucker: d o i t

\--------------------

@johnwatson: due to overwhelming requests, my flatmate now has a tumblr! it's @consultingdetective

@consultingdetective: John, I still don't see the appeal of Tumblr. This is what you spend your time doing?

@johnwatson: I'm gonna re gret this, aren't I?

\--------------------

@johnwatson: I swear, one of these days, I'm going to leave my flatmate locked outside in the rain

@consultingdetective: Is this retaliation for that one Wednesday that you missed? I believe I apologized extensively for that one.

@consultingdetective: Also, bold of you to assume that I won't just pick the lock.

\--------------------

@consultingdetective: You all should know that  @johnwatson is not allowing me to bring home any more severed heads. Please spam his ask box with complaints about this, as he has chosen to ignore me.

@johnwatson: You know bloody well why. This is not up for debate.

\--------------------

anonymous asked: You're an actual detective, right?

@consultingdetective: Yes. A consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world; I invented the job.

@consultingdetective: I believe that you can find some of my cases on my flatmate's Tumblr,  @johnwatson . My ask box is always open for cases. Please don't be boring.

\--------------------

@johnwatson: Now that Sherlock is on Tumblr, I can get half the internet to babysit him if I’m away from the flat. Tumblr, I place my life in your hands.

@consultingdetective: Really, John? No need to be so dramatic. Need I remind you what happened last time?

@johnwatson: It smelled like decomposing bodies for a week. Never again.

@consultingdetective: … the time before that.

@johnwatson: Nope. Found…  _ something _ in my tea. You still haven’t told me what it was.

@consultingdetective: I see that this isn’t helping my case.

@gaudy: this feels like it’s not meant for mortal eyes


End file.
